


A Design For Life

by MikaHaeli8



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Ambiguous Method of Death, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 18:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5015938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaHaeli8/pseuds/MikaHaeli8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The immediate aftermath, and the handling of the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Design For Life

**Author's Note:**

> Good God. I only seem capable of writing angst/ character death. I'm really sorry.
> 
> Big thanks to Liv for looking it over.
> 
> ~Mika

Eames drinks to drown his grief. Only it’s not alcohol he chooses – Arthur helped him climb out of that river a long time ago. No, in keeping with his very English heritage, he drinks tea. Irrational and unlikely, but he refuses to be another tragedy. He lets Cobb keep that title.

At least tea was more likely to boil his grief alive as well as drown it.

Naturally, it doesn’t work. More often than not, when he does drink tea, he clenches onto the mug, letting the hot china burn his skin, before downing the liquid like a dying man. It scalds his tongue, mouth and throat, and sinks to his stomach, but doesn’t take the heavy emptiness lodged in his chest.

~x~

 _Don’t look back_ , they say. Whether in dreamshare, movies and TV, or life in general, and whether physically or metaphorically, the mantra is _don’t look back_.

Eames defies that rule as soon as they get away from the burning hotel in Moscow, Arthur’s body still in sight. The team sprint for their lives, feet pounding the pavement so hard, it’s a wonder their ankles don’t break, and Eames fleetingly looks forward every now and then to ensure he doesn’t crash into a building or a fence. When he whips his head back, he can no longer see Arthur’s body, line of sight blocked by rubble. It’s that moment that forces him to look forward.

When they stop running, he looks back the way they came. He insists on the window seat in the plane and when he’s settled in, he keeps his eye on the still-visible smoke from the burning building, hand on the window, fingers curled as if he’s still waiting for Arthur to race out into the field from which the plane is about to take off –

_About to take off?_

“No!” he gasps, the word hurtling out of him like a pinball. No-one seems to notice, or if they do, they pretend otherwise. His stomach tightens. _We can’t go yet, we can’t, Arthur will be out in a minute, we can’t leave him behind_ –

The plane shudders as it starts roaring along the runway. Bile rising in his throat, Eames presses his hand to the window, fixes his eyes to the plume of smoke rising from the middle of Moscow. He watches it as it gets smaller and smaller and disappears under the layer of clouds the plane bursts through, refusing to blink.

A tanned, solid hand rests on his shoulder. It is an attempt at comfort, but it is not elegant, pale, or long-fingered. It will not surreptitiously slide down his arm and fill the spaces between his own clumsy digits. Eames stiffens, and just as he contemplates shrugging off the strange hand, it retreats. The hand pressed against the glass curls in anger, forming a tight fist.

He continues looking back until he almost trips over something in the hallway of their flat ( _his_ flat, now, it’s _his_ and _his alone_ ). Even then, he refuses to study that object too hard, viciously kicking it aside. He only stopped walking when he reached the kitchen, which also opened onto the living room and dining room. He takes both a look around and a deep, shuddering breath before putting his case down by the counter, and holding on to said counter for fear he’d collapse.

If there was one thing Eames never does (or rather, would never let himself do), it was collapse.

~x~

Eames never got to see Arthur’s life end; never got to hold him in his final moments. He had never deluded himself into thinking that they would grow old together, due to the nature of the business, but he would have at least liked to be there when Arthur passed on. At the same time, a small part of him had hoped that he would get to see Arthur’s temples grey, silver streaking his piano-black hair. He’d never told Arthur, though, the fear that it wouldn’t happen if he explicitly expressed his hopes suppressing that urge. That frequently arrived in the dead of night, just as Eames was about to go to sleep. He’d quietly slip out of bed, write that urge down on a piece of paper, read it exactly three times (why three times, Eames never knew) before burning it over the sink, washing the pieces down the drain. He would then return to bed, watching Arthur sleep for a moment or two, running his hand lightly down Arthur’s side before going to sleep.

It was like a ritual, albeit one that never left him satisfied.

~x~

The return to Moscow forms a knot of hope and dread in Eames’s stomach. He is sure that it shows as he fumbles for his American passport at customs, and he doesn’t look anyone in the eye as he passes through the barriers and out of the airport. He reaches the building quicker than he would have liked (once ‘burning’, now ‘charred and ruined’), only to find yellow tape wrapped around it like the world’s worst birthday present. Making as if to casually pass the building, his eyes quickly dart around for police officers, before he turns, taking quick strides towards the entrance.

“ _Hey!_ ” an authoritative voice barks in Russian. Eames’s heart sinks. He should have known that luck wouldn’t be on his side in this situation. He quickly ducks under the tape, looking around for a place to hide. As luck would have it, there is a smoke-wrecked bar at the back of the lobby. Hiding behind it, Eames discovers that there is broken glass covering the floor. He only discovers this _after_ he rests his hands on the floor to steady himself as he crouches, hissing in pain as the shards embed themselves into his palms. He holds himself as still as he can, barely breathing as the police officers burst into the hotel, stopping, Eames presumes, to scour the room.

“ _Where did he go?_ ”

“ _Did he even come in here?_ ”

A pause. Eames prepares himself to run – where to, he has no idea, but run all the same. Who knows, maybe the police would see him and give chase. Gun him down right next to Arthur. Seems only fitting, after all, and maybe he would _finally_ be at peace.

“ _Forget it. Probably some tramp,_ ” he hears one of them say, the disgust evident in her voice.

Eames exhales slowly as the Russians murmur in agreement and leave the hotel. As soon as their footsteps are out of earshot, he emerges from behind the bar and heads for the stairs, shards of glass and chunks of wood causing him to stumble several times. His heart sinks in dismay once he reaches the bottom of what used to be the stairs. Despair overtaking logic and hanging heavy in his chest, he runs to the lift and kicks at the warped doors, disregarding the loud rubber-dulled metallic sounds filling the lobby. Finally, after what feels like forever, he stops and collapses to the floor, leg aching, and heaves, struggling for air. Tears silently leak out of his eyes and drip on the floor, briefly spreading, but often stopped by dust and ash. Some of those tears carry a faint hint of blood, and when he touches his face, blood stains his fingers. His blood. He was certain of that

He stays kneeling, barely bothering to look at his watch. It’s only when night falls, and the air cools considerably, that he gets up. He touches every piece of rubble as he leaves, imprinting the textures on his mind. Suddenly, a wave of jealousy overtakes him – this hotel, this inanimate object, got to see Arthur dying, got to hold him as he went.

It’s the first time Eames doesn’t look back.

~x~

“You went back for him, didn’t you?” was how Ariadne greets Eames when she meets him at the airport. She studies him closely, the cuts adorning his face and hands, the minute tears in his clothing, grief and hopelessness dulling his eyes. She utters a small sigh and lowers her voice. “Did… did you find him?”

Eames swallows, wondering how she knew he was here, and wishing she would go. “No.”

Ariadne nods. “C’mon. I’ll drive you back.”

A protest lingers on Eames’s tongue, but he suppresses it. He doesn’t have the energy to fight, and wordlessly, he follows his colleague to her car. The journey feels long and is deathly silent, more so when they stop outside Eames ~~and Arthur’s~~ block of flats.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” Ariadne asks quietly, large brown eyes sympathetic.

Eames shakes his head, seemingly unable to use his voice, and fetches his backpack from the back of the car. Before he leaves the vehicle, he is halted by Ariadne as she puts her hand lightly on his arm.

“I know it’s hard for you. It’s hard for all of us. But…” She pauses, her breathing shaky. “You know where we are, right?”

Eames nods once, a tiny, brief smile gracing his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Ariadne nods. “Take care.”

Eames doesn’t reply, barely listens as the car roars off into the night, and he climbs the stairs to his flat, every single one heavy. He doesn’t turn on the lights when he gets in, heading straight for the bathroom and washing off as much of Moscow as he possibly could. Exhaustion suddenly overtaking him, he falls into bed, lying on his stomach and reaching out to Arthur’s side of the bed ( _always has been, always will be_ ). He rests his hand once more on the slight dip in the mattress, tapping his fingers on the sheet rhythmically, letting it lull him to sleep.

That night, he dreams of dimples and a pair of elegant hands.


End file.
